William T Spears Character Portrait Story for Fan-Fic
by Truedarkhunter
Summary: A slice of life story providing insight into the character William T. Spears from Black Butler/Kuroshitsuji. It takes into account the new information released that shinigami are created from suicide victims. The rest is pure speculation. If you want to see behind those glasses into what makes William tick, this will help. Please do leave reviews, I can't improve without feedback!


Character Portrait Story: William T. Spears

Rules. The rules are absolute. The rules must be obeyed at all times and at all costs. Failure to do so can result in an extension of our sentences. _Why can't I get them to understand this?_ William asked himself again as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

Grell and Ronald were squabbling again over whose fault the latest misadventure fell on, but for William it hardly mattered. How many more times? How many before the Higher-Ups started questioning his management abilities? How long before they extended his punishment? Surely not long at the rate these two were going. It was frustrating enough that he wound up a shinigami, a Grim Reaper, for the crime of committing suicide. It seemed that there were a set of unwritten rules humans were expected to follow, and the failure to do so was severe.

"How was I supposed to know you were going after the same target?" Grell shrilled. "There were plenty over your way, but no, you had to come over and take a swipe at the maiden I had in my sights!"

"Now hold on, Mr. Sutcliff, that's hardly fair at all! I was working a clear path from that wall over there to this one. You're the one jumping down and cherry picking targets! If you would work a pattern, too, we'd be out on time!" Ronald pointed down at their entangled Death Scythes. Somehow the chain of Grell's chainsaw scythe had become dislodged and was now wound tightly in Ronald Knox's lawnmower scythe's blades. Neither was functional now.

"Honestly." Pushing his glasses up in annoyance, William surveyed the scene. Bodies everywhere, only a fraction of them reaped and smoke streaming out of one side of Ronald's scythe. This is why William went with a long-handled pruner in the first place. It was quieter, and never failed him. These new ones with all their moving parts begged to break down. Add in that not a single piece or scrap of one could be left behind in the human world and you had a recipe for disaster.

"Ronald Knox, take this!" Reaching into his suit coat, William withdrew a second copy of his death scythe. The only difference was that this one sported blue tips instead of the usual red. He liked to switch it up when he had Library duty. "Get to work on the souls. Grell Sutcliff, since it is your chain that has entangled Ronald's death scythe, you will be the one to untangle it. Be certain that you don't loose a single link or tooth off of it. I will check the area once you are done. I cannot believe you scored triple A's in practical skills at the academy. How can that be possible for a reaper as incompetent as you?"

Grell winced backward at his jibe. William had bested him in a physical fight on their final practical exam with his B-average self up against Grell's A-average. The power tipped in his favor that day, yet no matter how many times he repeated his orders, Grell still managed to wreck things. Was it so much to ask for his staff do their jobs competently? It seemed so. All they had to do was follow the rules and eventually they'd be forgiven and allowed to progress to their final judgment and destination.

Back in his office hours later, William mopped his brow with his kerchief before tucking it back into his vest pocket. The reaping had fallen behind before William had been able to intervene and given that they already had one issue, William went with a slow, careful pace that left no margin for error, much to Ronald's dismay.

"Aww, but I'm going to be late for my date!" he exclaimed, checking out the huge gaudy wristwatch on his arm.

"I'm sure you will have other opportunities, Mr. Knox. Unfortunately, our job as Grim Reapers comes first. Or perhaps you would like to leave these souls suffering in their death throws even longer than they already are?" William gave Ronald one of his best glares. He tried to save them for important moments, but Ronald's "no overtime" attitude belied the importance of their work and galled him.

"All right, all right, but can't you pick up the pace some, sir? I've reaped nearly twice as many so far."

"Are you presuming to teach me, Mr. Knox? Might I remind you that I too had other duties to attend to this evening. Ones that actually need to be done in a timely fashion. If you and Mr. Sutcliff could have done your jobs on your own properly, you wouldn't be in this predicament. You should be grateful I'm willing to put the extra time in to salvage your mistake. I'm the one taking on unpaid overtime for this, or has it become so routine for you to put me through such that you have forgotten that I don't care to work for free, either?"

A simple button press shot the tip of William's scythe past Ronald's brow, making him jump and windmill his arms to keep his balance between the corpses. "No need to get so testy, sir!"

"Then quiet down and keep working," William growled back.

Back in the office at last, his thoughts began to chase themselves. It wasn't precision that made him reap with such care; it was to avoid a repeat of what happened during his final exam. He had been attacked by their target's cinematic record; his glasses knocked to the ground. The reels of memories had burrowed into him, seeking purchase, a body that wasn't dying, so that they could live on. He felt that other consciousness trying to merge with his before Grell Sutcliff had sliced them free with his scythe. His partner had gently replaced his glasses and taken a very different tone with him than he had the past month. Instead of dismissive, he became unaccountably attached. William thought it would end after a short period, but it seemed to not be so.

William was certain that if Grell had not shown up, he would have contracted the Thorns of Death, the very disease that had been slowly killing Alan Humphries. Closing his eyes, William dropped his head into his hands for a moment. His elbows wobbled on the surface of his desk as he ran his hands up under his glasses, pulling them free, then through his hair. Alan. Alan Humphries had been an excellent reaper, timely, quiet, personable but unassuming. He was the one most similar to himself.

Both Alan and his partner Eric were lost in yet another tragic farce on his watch. Between that and his personal idol turning against everything they stood for…William shook his head. No, best not to think on it. Don't dwell. That's what this place wants. If it were easy, it wouldn't be a punishment. He put his glasses back into place. 

Purgatory. That's where they lived. Purgatory. Meant as a place of correction for souls that deserved neither heaven nor hell, it was laid out in a precise pattern, the buildings white as death, the trim black as the void decorated with all the grays of ash and sorrow. This was their home now.

There were the Rules every shinigami followed, and then there were his rules.

1\. There is no such thing as "Punishment for amendment".

This place, it was supposed to rehabilitate them, or so they were told. Serve your time diligently, and get out. But once reaped, a soul didn't really change much. It was far more difficult for it to learn 'life lessons' when it wasn't technically alive anymore. William had not seen anyone change for the better in this place. It had unheard of amenities and everyone here shared a commonality-they had all committed suicide. Somehow it acted as a bond between the shinigami and many liked the place far more than the human realm from whence they came. Yet William avoided all of this. "A gilded cage is still a cage," he muttered to himself.

Pulling out a comb, he set his hair to rights before pulling out the next report.

2\. "Be clever, level-headed, and always keep your determination strong."

Only by following his head, not his heart, would he escape this prison this trap. He had already been here nearly a hundred years since he first passed his reaper exam and received his own personalized "Spectacles of Life". He touched them on the side, comforted by the feel of them. Ever since he lost them fighting with the soul of Thomas Wallis, he couldn't stop himself from checking and rechecking that they were there.

When he woke up from his reaping, finding himself turned into a shinigami by the folks in the Personnel Office, he could barely see his hands in front of his face. Everything was horribly blurred without them. They were his lifeline now, he couldn't hope to do his job without them, and failure to do your job could result in punishment. He could not afford another blot on his record. It was almost spotless and he intended to keep it that way. Otherwise, he'd never see her again.

The application for the soul reaping in front of him blurred a bit despite his glasses. Perhaps it was time for a break? After one more, he promised himself.

3\. "Use etiquette as a tool towards completing your work no matter how hypocritical your words or courtesy becomes."

Oh, he remembered this one. The man had throttled his youngest child to death while drunk and fell down the stairs the next morning, still drunk, breaking his neck. He saw William and tried to order him to help. William promised he would do exactly what the man needed and reaped him. Never once did he change his inflection, but it was hard to not feel a slight hint of satisfaction that he was speeding this monster to his final destination. William would do whatever was necessary to get the job done, but he would not break his composure. They were meant to be neutral. Grim Reapers reviewed, they didn't judge, nor did they question. Only strict adherence to the rules, constant perfection, would get him the release he sought.

4\. "We collect souls, no more no less. The flesh should remain unmarred by our hands."

Even when angry, he never took it out on the souls he was sent to collect. Grell on the other hand…well, his choice of death scythe said it all. He was messy, flamboyant, given to weird fits of passion and bouts of bad judgment. Perhaps that is what a C in Ethics got you in a reaper. William dearly wished he could push Grell Sutcliff off onto another branch, maybe Australia. The farther away the better. Ronald Knox's scythe was also questionable, but his technique in the field was acceptable. He did his job well, when Grell wasn't being a bad influence.

5\. "Take pride in the power of your scythe. This is Death's true manifestation placed in our hands."

As long as he used his scythe well, William had no real quarrel with Mr. Knox. His youthful exuberance grated, but he actually listened, or seemed to, when they were in the field. That was more than he could get from Grell even in the office. Ronald also went through the proper channels to get his death scythe, unlike Grell, even if his means for getting it approved were questionable. Charming the secretaries who put through the paperwork wasn't against the rules, but William was always uneasy with such tactics. Who knew when such a thing might backfire in their faces? Errors led to paperwork that led to overtime that led to questions of competency. William had worked too hard to have some underling undermine his position. Hence why he took on the unpaid overtime rather than have to report all the mistakes his staff made. He could only hope that the long hours they cost him would keep him from having far more of them added to the end of his sentence.

Pushing his chair away from his desk, William grabbed his death scythe where it leaned against the wall behind him. Now this–this tool was so close to him now it felt like an extension of his own arm. Practice with it over the years had made it a comfortable and familiar friend, one of the few he had.

Running a thumb along the dull silver bar near the handle he sighed at his own admission. This object was his friend. The other reapers were colleagues, underlings, and at times, annoyances, but they were not his friends. There was no point in getting attached to anyone here. They would only slow you down. He had the person he wanted to see again always in his mind and heart. There was only one that ever accepted him as he was and loved him for it rather than in spite of it. His wife.

Leaning his head against the coolness of his scythe blade, William let himself drop his guard for just a moment. Why did you have to die first? Why did you have to leave me so early? I tried to get along without you, I did, but you were what made my days brighter. People couldn't see in me what you did when you were gone. Tears burned his eyes and he squeezed them tight, denying them, refusing to let them fall. I'll hold it all in, I'll hold on until we can be together again. I'm so sorry I failed you, no one told me, how could I know?

He turned at the sound of a knock at the door and adjusted his glasses with a gloved hand. Who now? Someone who wanted to raise his ire at this late hour? That's what they would get given how far behind in his own work he was now. He'd be lucky to fall into bed and get enough sleep to function properly tomorrow. Dinner wasn't even an option anymore. He'd be lucky to fit in a cup of tea at this rate.

"Who is it?" he called, his voice tightly controlled.

"It's Rachel from General Affairs, Ronald asked me to drop off some completed paperwork to you, if that's all right."

"Honestly," he muttered to himself. Making yet more people handle the work that was rightly his. Had the young man no shame? "Come in," he called in a louder voice. A friendly looking face peeked in around the door, hesitant to enter, likely having heard horror stories about him from Mr. Knox. "Simply set them in that tray on my desk. I will go over them tomorrow. Thank you."

Courtesy. He could manage courtesy when it was called for. Rachel here did not deserve anything other than cool respect, unlike Mr. Knox once William saw him again. Rachel walked over and dropped off the files, giving a little wave that he did not return as she disappeared out the door, pulling it quietly shut behind her with care.

Courteous did not mean friendliness. He did not want to encourage any relationships outside of work. Not to say he didn't socialize, he did–when it suited him. After a long day, sometimes he wanted to listen to the buzz of conversation and feel the press of a crowd going about daily life to help him feel less lonely. But the life of a shinigami was just that.

6\. "To represent Death is to walk in total solitude."

The short hallway to his office was empty, no footsteps echoed in from the intersecting hall. Grabbing his scheduling folder in hand, easily as thick as any book and marked with multiple colored tabs at the top, he stepped out and turned off the light as he locked his door. Too many important files were there to leave to curious eyes, some of great importance to him in particular.

Walking along the main hallway with light painting the pale walls of the corridor, he watched his obedient shadow keep pace with him. It's the only thing he could command and count on in this place. Some legends held that the shadow was your soul, if you lost it, you would be lost forever. _Is that so?_ he wondered. _Are you the proof of my soul, that I'm not just a monster?_

No one else in his town had seen it that way. His wife had been his shield against those who couldn't understand his shy aloofness. They took it as rudeness, but he rarely meant anything by it. He could understand what others said, but couldn't seem to get the knack of being open and easy with others. His wife would laugh and interpret for him. When she passed away, that buffer went with her and even those who knew him slowly forgot what she said. He really wasn't complete without her. That's why he wanted to follow her so badly after a few years.

Or so he thought.

7\. "Neither deceive nor be deceived by the machinations of others."

The day he died, he dressed up in his best suit and sat still and upright in his favorite chair. William wasn't sure how one appeared after one died, but he was taking no chances. He had considered and weighed his options carefully, and did not want to leave a mess for others to clean up. This should be swift and sure. To botch it would put him far worse off than he already was.

Poison's a woman's weapon. He could hear the villagers say now. They didn't consider him a man anyway, not a real man, regardless of how hard he worked. He was an accountant and kept the records of the local bank in order. Never was so much as a shilling unaccounted for under him. But that didn't seem to please his family, or hers. That she died at all was a sign he wasn't man enough to keep her alive, or so he interpreted by what they said and by the things they specifically didn't say. Things like, "I'm sorry for your loss." No, no condolences for him, not once his wife was cold in her grave.

Every day seemed greyer than the last and he finally hatched a plan to join her. Hemlock was good enough for Socrates, it would speed him equally well into the afterlife. The wooden bowl next to him was full of the lacy leaves and reddish streaked stems. He had them floating in water to remove any bugs. He may be about to die, but he was nothing if not fastidious still. "May we be together at last," he prayed to her as his long fingers drew forth the first sprig.

The taste was awful but tolerable. The scent however was terrible, like parsnips but foul. It was difficult to believe it was related to the anise and carrots he enjoyed. Still, it's potency was legendary and he included the root as well to insure a swift demise. He caught some sort of movement out of the corner of his eye as he dipped his hand into the bowl to fish out the heavier root. It was gone in an instant and it hardly mattered anyway. If a cat or rat or other scavenger got in, he would not have any way to stop them at this point.

Raising the root to his lips he closed his eyes and bit into it hard. It was fibrous and hard to eat, but he felt the vertigo hit almost immediately. Staying in the chair became difficult. He couldn't command his legs anymore and the odd lack of sensation from them caused him to open his eyes once more.

In the corner of the room was…something. He couldn't focus on it properly. It looked like nothing he'd ever seen. As he tried to squint to see it a shadow fell over him, looking back he saw a man in a black suit and tie where there should have been no one. The man smiled kindly at him and opened his mouth to speak when the thing moved. The man's green eyes flashed with surprise and he darted with amazing swiftness after the thing.

They began a chase around the room of his house, almost comedic in nature given how he was powerless to move. As his breathing became harder to maintain, the man slashed out with a shining…something. William no longer knew what, he couldn't breathe and his vision was fading. "Don't worry, I've got you now. The demon is gone."

Demon?

A strange piercing sensation penetrated where there had been nothing before. His life began to flash before his eyes and he saw the joys and pain of his life before him. However, after his wife died, there was a dark orange splotch that occupied a corner of his house, utterly unnoticed by him in the intervening years. He tried to speak, to ask the man what he was seeing, but couldn't form words.

"Oh, you see it now, do you? That's the demon that's been preying on you, whispering to you to do yourself in. I'm really sorry about that. We Grim Reapers only get called in at the last minute to make sure they don't manage to steal your soul before judgment. Looks like he's been here for quite some time, wearing you down and feeding off of you. I'm sorry about that."

Feeding off of him? Was his melancholy not actually his own? Was it from the influence of some infernal beast?

The man continued, "Unfortunately, you did have free will still and decided to take your own life. Tough break that. I'll make a note in your file that your act was influenced by the presence of a demon. They might take it easier on you, but I can't say."

Easier on him? Who would take it easier on him? And for what?

"Yes, see, if you commit suicide, you get to do the same duty I am now. Congratulations, man, you're going to be a Grim Reaper from now on."

That was the last thing he heard before waking up as a shinigami in Purgatory. His daydreams of a happy reunion with his wife? Dashed. Not just for a little while, but likely for centuries. Centuries of watching others die over and over as punishment for not appreciating the life given to him.

 _Then why take her away from me? Why let a demon prey on me? What sort of God does that?_ He didn't know.

8\. "Memories are a brothel that call out to you over and over again."

Reaching the Reaper Library, William looked over the list of overdue cinematic records and issued collections letters. After that he started shelving some of the records dropped off at the counter. Only a few more hours of work and he could sleep. The day had been long, and harsh, and tiresome. Perhaps, this once?

His eyes strayed to a familiar case of books. He didn't go there often, tried not to, but today he needed something more. Checking to make sure that no one else was around, he retrieved the soul record of his deceased wife. A long, soft sigh escaped him and his heart sped up a bit to be even this close to her again. He delved into his own memories almost every night, hiding his cinematic record in his folder. No one ever checked it and he made sure to keep it on him nearly every waking second. That record, his scythe, and his glasses were his holy trinity here. The rules of the shinigami were his religion, and his own rules, his sacred mantra. He had to reunite with her, to be with her once again. To that end he executed his duties with flawless precision and tireless dedication.

Yet even the delving he did by reading his own record where they first met, how their love blossomed, and finally how she died, didn't seem to be enough anymore. Was it familiarity breeding contempt? If so, touching her record and seeing himself through her eyes, feeling that first bloom of love in her heart would restore it. Surely.

He never went farther than that point in her book. He didn't want to know if she cursed him by the end. It would be like dying all over again if she did. No, he wouldn't go there. Just a light read before bed. Her eyes shining in his memory and her heart fluttering and skipping a beat when he came to call. Yes, just a little bit to ease the loneliness until he could see her again. He'd hold this part of her in his arms again, just for tonight.


End file.
